


House of Metal

by Cygnete



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (I'm just going to warn for that up front), (in various forms), Cousin Incest, Doomed Relationships, Family tension, Father-Son Relationship, I promise this has a plot, M/M, Multi, Obsession, Other tags to be added, Years of the Trees, Young Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 16:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6431587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cygnete/pseuds/Cygnete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young Curufin has many obsessions, and he doesn't like when a new and more dangerous one takes hold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	House of Metal

**Author's Note:**

> I have a million things I could say here but they all escape me. This really should have been posted back when I wrote it. It was written for my own indulgence. I feel I must apologize, but I'm going to stop myself from doing so.
> 
> I _am_ going to apologize if this feels disjointed, though.

The light of Laurelin was shining brilliant gold and slanting in transparent rays through the doorway of the forge. Fëanáro’s apprentices had not yet arrived for the day’s lessons and only Curufinwë and his father occupied the sprawling work space.

Curufinwë liked it better like this, when it was just the two of them.

He stood at the forge’s table as his father stoked the fire, absently flipping through the pages of his sketchbook and looking over his notes. The previous day had not been as productive as he would have liked; he still couldn’t perfect one of the designs his father had asked him to create and he was endlessly frustrated by his father’s other apprentices.  


He glanced towards Fëanáro, whose lips formed a smile as he brushed the soot from his hands. Curufinwë let his sketchbook fall closed, already expecting the question.

“How is the progress on that curved dagger?”

Curufinwë shook his head. “I will need a few more days. The contractor for the hilt keeps having questions about the design as if I have not sketched it clearly enough, but I am beginning to be of the opinion he is just blind.”

“I’ve always said so.” Fëanáro gave another wry smile, and gestured towards the sketchbook. “Let me see?”

Curufinwë opened his sketchbook once more, and fought the urge to ask why his father could not simply hilt the blade for him. He could almost hear his father’s voice saying again, _because that is not the process, Curvo, and you must learn how different forges and contractors work together, especially if you are to learn how to craft weapons. The forging of a blade is not completed by a single individual._

He turned the sketchbook around so his father could see the orthographic drawings, his throat tight, as it always was when his father scrutinized his work.  


“That is a most handsome dagger.”  


“Thank you.” Curufinwë said, unable to suppress a slight smile. “I had originally planned for cut sapphires in the hilt, but rather thought it might clash with the gold plating, and I was curious as to if any garnets were available.”  


Fëanáro considered this while examining his charcoal smudged fingernails. “The plating will add at least week onto production time.”  


“I know, unless you allow me to plate it myself, but—“  


“We have not covered that in our lessons, Curvo, and I rather think you would be bored by the task.”  


“I have proven you wrong before, have I not?”  


Fëanáro thought for a moment. “I would not even be able to consider a plating lesson for a least a fortnight--”  


“There is no need,” Curufinwë said abruptly, shutting his sketchbook with a snap “I already found a willing apprentice at Grandfather Mahtan’s forge, she is most skilled.”  


Fëanáro placed a warm hand on his shoulder. Curufinwë had made his disappointment known before about not progressing as quickly as he would have liked, and Fëanáro seemed to know exactly what he was thinking. “You will get there one day. I have no doubts,” he said soothingly. “For now we will continue with striking and shaping the metal, especially after the last two attempts shattered.”  


Curufinwë felt his heart sink again. “Atar, that was--”  


“The steel, of course.” Fëanáro waved an impatient hand, and then sighed. “Regardless, it will have to wait. My half-brother and his Telerin wife will be here after noontide.”  


Curufinwë knotted the leather strings of his sketchbook. He had forgotten about their guests, their half-family from Alqualondë, and scowled slightly at the delay in his studies. His expression went unnoticed by Fëanáro, who was raking a hand through his hair, freeing it of its messy tail.  


“Do you remember your Uncle Arafinwë? You had to have been but an elfling when last you met. He is perhaps too diplomatic, and has too much drink on feast days, but he is much less insufferable than that Ñol--”  


“Aye, I remember him, Atar.” He murmured as the voices of Fëanáro’s apprentices drifted in from the distance.  


Fëanáro smiled and tied his apron, turning towards the fire again. Curufinwë picked up his own apron and let out a tight breath. The voices grew louder, mixed with laughs and friendly yells, and he was overcome with the feeling that the day was going to be so much more frustrating than he had originally anticipated.  


//  


As promised, at around midday, Fëanáro dismissed his apprentices and promptly ordered Curufinwë to change clothes and make himself presentable. He also pressed a small book into Curufinwë’s still gloved hands, saying softly that it was one of his own from the time he spent at Aulë’s forge and that he would like for Curufinwë to read through it before their next lesson.  


Eventually Curufinwë found himself in one of the many palace courtyards, surrounded by his family and many servants, with a line of golden-haired figures before him. He straightened his sleeves, not looking at his relatives and only half hearing their voices. There was so much reading to get through after dinner, and the same irritated feeling came floating back. His father must have known about his impatience (Fëanáro seemed, to Curufinwë, to know everything) but he appeared like he cared not at all.  


Curufinwë let his mind wander, knowing full well that he should be paying attention to his relatives, and he tried to recall a time when he had felt this restless and inattentive. Again, his father barely seemed to notice, but Curufinwë did feel the brush of Fëanáro’s thought in his mind, and did not wonder if it was on purpose.  


He looked towards his father, who was in a better mood while greeting Arafinwë than expected, considering recent arguments with Ñolofinwë. Curufinwë supposed it was a pleasant surprise, and he could see his mother’s smile in the corner of his gaze and knew that she was pleased as well before she turned to speak softly with Eärwen.  


Eärwen was standing with a young child in her arms. “Aikanáro,” she said, “Won’t you say hello to your uncle and aunt?”  


The child smiled brightly, his blond locks untidy upon his head, and said nothing. Curufinwe noticed another taller child standing near Eärwen’s side, holding his older brother’s hand and bouncing on the balls of his feet in a way similar to how Tyelkormo would when nervous. Angaráto, no doubt, if Curufinwë was remembering properly.  


The family kept on talking, but he turned over the book his father gave him in his palms. Tomorrow he was to accompany his father to council with Rúmil and there were festival preparations afterwards.  


His father’s voice drifted back to his ears, but softer than before. “Arafinwë, I had been meaning to inquire in my last letter. Should we have our discourse on my father's most recent statement regarding last week's situation before or after the festival?”  


Curufinwë reflexively chewed his lower lip. He did not like when his father left him out of what appeared to be important matters, and judging by the worried crease that was creeping back onto his mother’s brow, she had been left out as well.  


“Whenever is more adequate for you, I understand you are quite busy.”  


“The sooner the better.”  


Curufinwë knew that there was something going on and that he was being kept in the dark about, and he suspected it had something to do with Nolofinwë (he didn’t suspect, not really. He knew, he watched the tension and overheard his parents’ discussions). And Curufinwë agreed with his father, of course, disliking his half-uncle for a reason he could not quite place. He had also particularly noticed the change in Maitimo and Findekáno’s relationship (although he was unsure how much his father knew on that matter; Curufinwë, at least, kept secrets quite well).  


But Maitimo was laughing with Tyelkormo and Angaráto, and seemed to have missed the exchange between their fathers entirely. He could just make out their conversation, something about a new hunting spear that Tyelkormo had brought with him from the Halls of Oromë, something else about a hunting trip planned for later that week, and a tournament later in the month, and he was reminded again of his projects and his dagger and tried desperately to put his desire to work from his mind.  


_It does not matter either way, I am not even doing half of the work on this project. Father does not think I am ready…_ he reminded himself again, perhaps being a bit harder on himself about the situation than was necessary.  


Fëanáro and Arafinwë were speaking somewhat louder now and Nerdanel was turned away, engaged in another conversation with Eärwen. Curufinwë let his eyes wander again and eventually found himself sharing a grieved look with Carnistir over his father’s shoulder. Carnistir’s eyes were somewhat dark and he shrugged, never quite pleased with the formalities of the royal court and cordial interaction.  


“You know, Arafinwë, I am supposed to be getting a shipment of Telerin pearls for a commission I am to complete, and I would like to consult with you on the punctuality of some of the people with whom you associate—“  


Carnistir coughed and looked away, and Curufinwë plucked at his sleeves again, wishing to be gone, but it was then that he felt the strange and familiar unnerving sensation of someone else’s eyes on him.  


He glanced up, looking past his uncle to see two sparkling blue eyes surveying him lightly. There was a soft smile on Findaráto’s lips, his hair fell about his face in long golden waves, and he stood almost as tall as Arafinwë beside him. His smile widened, but it was only when he looked back at Fëanáro that Curufinwë realized Findaráto had not blinked during the exchange.  


He inhaled a tight breath, his ribs refusing to expand, not looking away. Findaráto was saying something in response to Fëanáro, but Curufinwë did not hear it.  


He looked briefly at Arafinwë, then back at Findaráto, and blinked a few times. He dropped his eyes to the ground, telling himself that staring (watching) was not polite.  


Curufinwë did not care. His eyes found their way back to Findaráto.  


//  


The mingling that evening was clear and bright, and Curufinwë eventually found himself tucked into a corner of the family library. Dinner had passed without event; he listened to Tyelkormo recite an old but humorous hunting mishap for their younger cousins and he effectively ignored the smiling face of Arafinwë’s eldest child.  


His father had been in a fey but cheerful mood the entire afternoon and Curufinwë was glad. He passed it off as Arafinwë’s gentle, unobtrusive demeanor and infrequent presence, and turned his attention towards his notes and blueprints.  


After an hour of peaceful silence, Findaráto wandered unexpectedly into the family library. Curufinwë had been so absorbed in his reading that he did not even notice him until his figure appeared in front of the window, long hair pulled back in a tail bound halfway down his back, and the light framing his head like some sort of crown.  


Curufinwë felt his breath hitch, eyes fixed on the figure.  


He did not know why he was so taken with the appearance of his half-cousin; they had met before, a long time ago. Findaráto was only half a year older than him after all, and as children, he, Findarato, and Turukáno were often placed in each other’s company. He laid his notes in his lap and shifted silently to better watch his subject, trying to recall details about their first meeting. Perhaps he had been too young.  


_“Go on, Curufinwë, greet your half-cousins.”  
_

“Curvo, talk to them, we must be at least polite.”  


“Oh, forgive him, Arafinwë, he does not speak often. We are working on that, he is quite articulate when we can get the words out of him.”  


He could not recall much else, save for sitting in corners with his books while their fathers spoke and his cousins milled about their feet, chattering about whatever it was that children discussed. He had never wanted to participate in their play, and declined all offers with a stiff shake of his head until they stopped offering altogether and their smiles lessened when they saw him.  


Not long after, Findaráto and his family left to live in Alqualondë, and they faded from Curufinwë’s memory. He knew of their visits to Tirion, but had always been away at Aulë’s forge with his father or off hunting with his brothers.  


But now here Findaráto was, nearly full-grown and radiant, and studying the books on one of the shelves with interest, a hand passing gently over the stitched spines. There were at least five scrolls under his arm in addition to the smaller leather-covered notebook that Curufinwë had seen him carrying earlier. He remembered bits of conversations about how his half-cousin had proved himself intelligent and bright, and found himself wanting to question him to see if his memory was correct.  


Curufinwë continued to watch, scrutinizing the white Telerin silks and long limbs of his cousin, miffed at this cruelly elegant invasion to his quiet study space.  


At last Findaráto plucked a thick tome constructed by Rúmil from the shelf and gazed at the cover before tucking it neatly under his arm with his other reading. He brushed a strand of golden hair behind his ear and turned to leave, not glancing in Curufinwë’s direction once.  


Surely he had known that Curufinwë was there.  


“Curufinwë?” A melodic voice drifted in from another room. It was Makalaurë. “Curvo, where are you? I have information about the linguistics counsel tomorrow.”  


“Leave me be, Káno, I am studying.” Curufinwe said automatically, although he did not mind the disturbance to his reeling thoughts as much as he imagined.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Disclaimer: I consider myself an illustrator, not a writer. Don’t be disappointed with me, you know what my occupation is. I had half a mind to keep this to myself, but Happy Talent Inversion Day. c:
> 
> 2\. Story takes place before the twins happened. 
> 
> 3\. I don't know when chapter two will be posted. Hopefully it will be more cohesive than chapter one. Hopefully longer, too.
> 
> 4\. Do I really need to put that the titles are taken from Chelsea Wolfe and Christopher Marlowe?


End file.
